Guilty Pleasures

by Cathy Yardley

  When Mari laughed beneath his lips, he pulled away. “Tickle?”

  “No,” she said, giggling. “It’s just…”

  He hovered over her. “What?”

  “Nick, love, I’m tired as all hell.”

  He burst into laughter, rolling onto his back. The two of them chuckled until they were breathless. Mari wiped at the tears that trickled from her eyes.

  “I never thought I’d say that. Especially not about you,” Mari said, gasping slightly. She trailed her fingers down his bare chest before resting her chin on it. “But man, these past few weeks have been a bear.”

  “I know, I know,” Nick said, enjoying the viewpoint of her face gazing at his, the weight of her. He curved an arm around her, stroking absently at her soft skin. “I know I’ve only been at your restaurant for a few months….”

  Mari closed her eyes for a minute. “Hmm. Four months now.”

  “Really?” He pushed the hair out of her eyes, brushing his fingertips along her jaw line after he tucked the stray strands behind her ear. “It just seems like longer, you know? Seems like…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, but got the feeling she understood.

  It seems like we’ve been together for a long, long time.

  She nodded, kissing his abdomen. “You know, when I first met you, I thought…”

  He tilted his head up, “Don’t tell me. ‘Who is this gorgeous, godlike man, and how can I get him in my bed?’”

  “No,” she replied, poking him in the ribs. “I thought, here comes trouble.” She grinned. “The ‘gorgeous-must-jump-him’ part came later.”

  “I see.” He pulled her until she was resting on top of him. “And do you still think I’m trouble?”

  She nodded, and her violet gaze was warm, tender. “Yeah. But you’re worth it.”

  “It’s because of the sex, isn’t it?” Nick said, meaning to joke. But for a second, he searched her face.

  She loves me.

  The weird thing was, he hadn’t the foggiest idea why.

  They’d had a chemistry so combustible it ought to carry a warning label. He knew himself—he had more than a streak of arrogance, what had been called a brutal ambition, a tendency to be bullheaded. He wasn’t expressive. He wasn’t sensitive. He wasn’t really what any of those women’s magazines said a woman wanted for anything other than a one-night stand.

  She was staring at him, and he tried to play it off. “I mean, I pride myself on being creative in bed and all, so if you are in it just for the sex, hey, I don’t think I can blame you….”

  “You know something? The sex is great, don’t get me wrong. Beyond great.” She looked thoughtful. “But what really got me was the food.”

  “Huh?” Her answer floored him. “You mean…you love me because I’m good at my job?”

  She leaned down and kissed him, and he could feel the tremors of laughter shaking her ribcage. When she pulled back, her eyes sparkled.

  “No, you idiot,” she said. “Not how you cook. How much you love food.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not everyone,” she said, and rolled off of him, staring at the ceiling. He propped himself up on one arm, and contented himself with stroking the spot where her hip met her leg. “My parents don’t love food like that. They never really understood why I did. They’d say things like, ‘Mari, why are you getting so involved in this? It’s just food.’ Like I was some bizarre sort of obsessive-compulsive. Like getting into culinary school was just something people who couldn’t manage getting into a real college did.”

  He shook his head, wanting to beat up the shortsighted people who obviously missed what was most special about their beautiful daughter. “Well. They sound pretty…” Cruel. He went for the safer description, one that would make her smile rather than remind her of the past. “Square.”

  “More like pretty status-conscious,” she said. “They thought the idea of their daughter being a cook was beneath them. In some ways, I think Derek did, too. He always introduced me as ‘the only child of the Worthingtons’ and then as the chef of his restaurant. Like it was my family connection that was much more important.” She looked at him. “You weren’t like that. You really listened to me…even when I was coming up with really weird ideas.”

  He closed his eyes and smiled. “Like the circus menu.”

  “God, yeah. That was a bad idea,” she agreed. “But you always listened. And you gave me chocolate instead of roses. And even though you thought we’d tank at Internationale, you still took it seriously. You never lied to me or put me down. You can even read my writing,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think you know me better after four months than most people have after years. And I feel like I know you.”

  He nodded, pressing a tiny kiss against her shoulder. She was right. She seemed to be able to read him…the way he got angry, and she soothed him. The way she could coax him out of a creative block. The way she could turn him on with a smile and make him worry with a frown. The way she knew when he was hungry or when he needed something in the kitchen or just needed her to press her head against his chest or kiss him.

  “What’s the first food you can remember loving?” he asked, against the choking of emotion in his throat.

  “Ooh. A tough one,” she said, with a smile. “Hmm. I’d have to say chocolate chip cookies.” She shrugged when he laughed. “Hey, nobody’s got a discerning palate at five.”

  “No, no complaints. Like I said before, nothing’s better than chocolate,” he said, smiling. “My mom was an incredible cook. She worked really hard in a kitchen all day, so you’d think she’d hate cooking, but she still did. When I’d come home from a really crappy day at school, she’d make me…” He stopped. “Never mind. You’ll laugh.”

  “No, really. I want to know.” Mari nudged him, her eyes encouraging. “What’d she make?”

  “Flan. You know, custard. If I was really feeling lousy, she’d mix the eggs and the milk and then make the caramel, and pop it in a pan of water in the oven. I swear, I could eat an entire batch of it myself.” He smiled. “Come to think of it, I did.”

  “That sounds nice.” Mari sighed. “For me—when I felt lousy, it was mashed potatoes. Or bread pudding.”

  “If I aced a test—steak.” His mouth watered just thinking of it. “Or hand-rolled, deep-fried pork flautas, with the tortillas all crispy, and fresh guacamole…”

  “Not for me,” she replied with a smile. “Celebrations were made for sushi.”

  He laughed. “Sort of made the jump from chocolate-chip cookies, huh?”

  “It’s funny,” she mused. “I think some of my best memories involve food.”

  “Me, too.”

  She sat up bolt upright in the bed. “Wait a minute. That could be it.”

  He stared at her. “Huh?”

  “Emotions and food. That’s what’ll give us an edge at the competition. Not a sensual feast,” she said, leaning down and grabbing for a pad of paper at the edge of the bed. “An emotional feast.”

  “Mari, food is totally subjective,” Nick said, still intrigued by the idea, but playing devil’s advocate. “There’s no way we can play on the heartstrings of complete strangers. It’s not like we’ll know their childhoods. They’re all going to be different people. What’s an experience they’re all going to relate to?”

  She frowned, still processing it. Then she smiled.

  “Love,” she said, and her eyes lit up. “They’ll all have fallen in love, Nick.”

  He smiled. “So. You want to make a menu that’s like falling in love?”

  She nodded.

  “Wow.” He whistled. “You don’t do anything half-measure, huh?”

  “Think about it. Something exciting and dazzling to start…” She started doodling on the paper. “Something new and different and fun. Then something more mysterious and complicated, something more involving. Then move on to something warm and comforting and…” She gestured with the pen in her hand.
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br />   “Addicting?” Nick supplied, still staring at her.

  “That’s it. Something really compelling.” She smiled. “Then the dessert would be something delicious, and still comforting and solid.”

  “Falling in love,” Nick mused. Then he looked at Mari.

  Her eyes were ablaze with creative energy, and there was a little half smile flirting with the corners of her mouth. She was focused on the paper, making her notations, brainstorming.

  He kissed her, taking her attention away from her work for a second.

  “What was that for?” she asked, and he was satisfied to see her focus blurring a little.

  “For loving food,” he said with a grin, then his tone grew more serious. “For loving me, Mari.”

  She dropped the paper and pen off the side of the bed, and reached for him.

  “Maybe I’m not so tired after all,” she whispered against his lips, and pulled him into her. “We can brainstorm a little bit later.”

  THEY WERE ONLY five minutes late to meet Leon at a little bistro he knew of, over in North Beach. The place was authentic Italian, not just the overhyped Italian designed to attract tourists. The three of them crammed into a little booth in the corner.

  “I know the owner,” Leon said, after being hugged by a huge man with a thick black beard.

  “We gathered,” Mari said, squeezing Nick’s hand under the table.

  “So. Do you have something to show me?”

  Mari felt a little flutter of apprehension, until Nick stroked the nape of her neck and then draped his arm around her shoulders. She nodded and pulled out the sketches and descriptions from her purse, handing them over the table.

  “I think you’ll find it….” Mari took a deep breath. “Well, it’ll be different, at any rate.”

  “Ringing endorsement,” Leon said, but he smiled kindly anyway. “Let’s see, then.” He put a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on, picking up the paper.

  “Relax,” Nick whispered into her ear. “It’ll be fine.”

  She leaned against him, reveling in his warmth, and she let some of the tension seep out of her. Still, she squirmed slightly, waiting for Leon’s response.

  He frowned, reading over everything carefully, going back to things. Nick squeezed her shoulders, and when she started tapping her foot against the metal leg of the table, Nick put his hand on her knee until she realized what she was doing and stopped.

  “This,” Leon said finally, “is unusual. Inspired. In short: it’s pretty damned good.”

  Mari let out a breath and felt her spine slump. “Thank you,” she said, then straightened, bracing herself for another onslaught. “But do you think it can win?”

  Leon didn’t say anything at first. Then, slowly, he smiled.

  “Yes. If you can iron out the details, I think that it will be the freshest thing those tired old judges at Internationale have seen in years. I think you’ll knock their proverbial socks off.”

  Mari leaned against Nick, and smiled when he brushed a kiss against her temple.

  “But it’s going to take a lot of work,” Leon added. “I can work with your crew, but these appetizers are going to be time-consuming, and the main courses…”

  “I’ll worry about the main courses,” Nick said. “Of course, if you decide to throw any suggestions my way, I’m definitely open to them.”

  Leon nodded. Their waiter arrived, and they put in their orders. When he left, Nick looked at Mari.

  “I’m going to wash my hands. Be right back.”

  She winked at him, watching him as he weaved his way between the tables.

  “So.” Leon sighed. “You’re involved with Nick, then.”

  Mari looked at Leon. “Yes.” She paused, feeling the weight of his stare. “You disapprove?”

  “Well, moving past the idea of getting involved with someone you work with…” he said, and shook his head. “I care about Nick. I care about both of you. You were without a doubt two of my brightest students.”

  Mari warmed, smiling. “Thank you, Leon.”

  “But you were very different,” he said, folding his hands together. “He’s different, Mari.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He wants to be a success. More than he’s wanted almost anything.”

  She tapped her fork against the table impatiently. “I don’t mean to offend you, Leon, but I’ve heard this warning. From Lindsay…hell, from Nick himself. He’s almost obsessively driven. But he cares about me.”

  “Yes, I know,” Leon said. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Mari blinked. “Pardon?”

  “He obviously cares about you. Enough to drive under his desire to have his own restaurant, and help you out. It may not be enough for him—but he’s fighting it, to stay with you.”

  She smiled. “And that’s wrong?”

  “It will be if he learns to resent you for it.”

  Mari took a sip of her water, thinking over his words.

  Leon took a look at the bathroom, where Nick was emerging from the door. “Mari, Nick is very intense. I know that he’ll do anything to get what he wants. Including give up his dreams if he has to. But I’m afraid that a choice of that magnitude would tear him apart. Do you understand that?”

  Mari nodded slowly.

  “Just consider what might happen.”

  “Back again,” Nick said, sitting down next to Mari. His eyes glowed golden as he surveyed her. “Well, you two are awfully serious. What’ve you been talking about while I was gone?”

  Mari looked at Leon, whose face had gone back to a placid mask. “Just the competition,” Leon said easily. “This isn’t going to be an easy victory by any stretch. Are you sure you’re dedicated enough to pull this off?”

  Nick didn’t stop looking at Mari. “Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “I’m sure.”

  Mari smiled back at him, but in the back of her mind, she felt a little twinge of doubt.

  I’m afraid that a choice of that magnitude would tear him apart.

  They had a chance at winning. Wouldn’t Nick want to stay at a top-ranked restaurant? With a new cash flow and a new building owner, the restaurant could be improved as the neighborhood was revitalized. She’d make sure that Nick got some publicity, he would have more than earned it. Would he really need his name over the door to be happy?

  Would you be satisfied giving up your restaurant to be with him?

  She frowned unhappily.

  Nick kissed her. “Relax,” he said smoothly. “It’ll be all right.”

  She smiled back at him. God, I hope so.

  9

  IT WAS ONE WEEK TO Internationale. The crew had been working like fiends for the past few weeks, and the excitement and consequent tension was driving them all a little crazy. Leon had suggested that they all take a step away from the work, get some perspective…and some relaxation. Tiny and Paulo were playing basketball to work off the nerves. Zooey was apparently going to some kind of Tai Chi lesson “to try to get the Zen of pastries,” she’d claimed. Nick was out… He’d said at the movies, but she doubted he’d sit still that long.

  Mari sat at a broad cherry conference room table in a posh office in downtown San Francisco. Lindsay looked cool as a cucumber in her pale green suit, her blonde hair swept up in a French twist that made her look like something out of a forties movie. Mari was glad she looked so collected. She, herself, was wearing a pinstripe suit that she hated, in air that felt sterile and sluggish, waiting for the new owner from this “conglomerate” to get in here.

  Everybody else got to relax, Mari thought grumpily. Why do I have to get stuck with this crap? Why can’t I go play, too?

  She sighed, answering her own question. Because she was the owner. That brought responsibility. That changed the rules. Besides, winning Internationale wouldn’t change anything if she got evicted the next day.

  The door opened, and a tall, tanned man with pale blond hair stepped in. “Ladies. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” />
  “Not at all,” Lindsay said, standing and holding out her hand. “I’m Lindsay Everett, and this is the restaurant’s owner, Mari Salazar.”

  “Ms. Salazar,” he said smoothly, shaking her hand. “A pleasure, no pun intended. I’ve read a lot about you and your restaurant.”

  “Thanks.” Mari smiled. “I’m sorry, your name is…?”

  “Of course. Thoughtless of me.” He sat down opposite them. “My name is Phillip Marceau.”

  Lindsay’s eyes widened. Mari got to her feet.

  “Come on, Lindsay,” she said, her voice tight. “We’re leaving.”

  “That’s a trifle rude, don’t you think?” Phillip’s voice was cultured and mocking. “After all, I do own your building now.”

  Mari spun. “And now I see why. What is your problem? Nick didn’t do anything to you.”

  “I suppose you’d think that. And I suppose you’d believe it.” He didn’t look so smooth now. There was a definite ferocity in his eyes. “I thought he was my friend. I thought he cared about me. But…well, all’s fair in friendship and business, I suppose.”

  “Which is why you framed him for theft and embezzlement and then fired him,” Mari snapped.

  Lindsay stood at this, walking to stand next to Mari. “I don’t think we should say anything else,” she said, her voice low and quick. “Come on.”

  “I don’t think you should leave just yet, Mari,” Phillip interrupted.

  “What the hell could you possibly have to say to me?”

  “I have a deal for you.” He pointed at Lindsay. “Just between you and me.”

  “We’re leaving,” Lindsay said, but Mari shook her head.

  “Lin, wait for me outside, please?” She glared at Phillip. “I want to hear what Mr. Marceau thinks he can offer me.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lindsay whispered back. “He’s going to threaten the restaurant because he’s the new owner unless you pull out of the competition. Let’s get out of here. I know a lawyer….”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ve got the time or the money to go up against the Marceau family lawyers, dear Ms. Everett,” Phillip said, his voice amused. “Fine. Mari, your friend has the gist of it, anyway.”